


Caution: Do Not Leave Unattended

by Kyra



Series: Warning Labels [3]
Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Infidelity, Outdoor Sex, Roof Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-18
Updated: 2007-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra/pseuds/Kyra
Summary: Part 3. Set duringThe Client. Things are getting weirder.





	Caution: Do Not Leave Unattended

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third chapter in an a/u season two series, Warning Labels, posted to LJ in the distant year of 2006. [Find the other parts of the series here.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/707550)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://honey-wheeler.livejournal.com/profile)[honey_wheeler](http://honey-wheeler.livejournal.com/), [](http://annakovsky.livejournal.com/profile)[annakovsky](http://annakovsky.livejournal.com/) & [](http://obsession-inc.livejournal.com/profile)[obsession_inc](http://obsession-inc.livejournal.com/) brainstorm, beta & make it all happen!

 

Jim comes up beside her as she's standing at the copy machine stacking printouts of _Threat Level Midnight_. She's put the worst drawing in front as the cover, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh, excellent," he says and she hands him one with a flourish.

"Collated and stapled," she says, and he flips through it.

"Of course," he says. "Very professional."

Pam grins as she grabs the rest of the stack and heads toward the conference room. She's felt the residual buzz of embarrassment under her skin all day, that stupid date story, and it feels good to focus on something else, to have an excuse to talk to Jim, to be like they used to. It’s been a week since she’s been able to look at him without remembering his mouth on her breast, his hand up her skirt. What he looks like when he comes.

"Oh my God," she says as everyone else is filing into the conference room. "Samuel L. Chang, African-Asian-American?"

" _Very_ multicultural," says Jim, leaning over to look at her copy of the script. Under the table the side of his foot is just barely touching hers.

**

Pam beats him up to the roof. “Okay,” Jim had said on their way out of the conference room. “ _You_ are in charge of drinks. Meet me on the roof in … seven minutes.”

“What?” she’d said. “What are you going to—“

“Please,” he said, “don’t question the master.”

It’s dark up here, and windy. Pam balances the cans of soda in her lap, and sits in one of the folding chairs they snuck up here last summer. Summer already seems like a long time ago; it’s been a long, strange fall and she’s been embarrassed for most of it. The cameras are back, and Michael is Michael, and she keeps getting drunk and throwing herself at Jim, and he’s too nice to tell her to back the hell off. Chili’s and Poor Richard’s and Jim’s car, which she can’t even _look_ at anymore. She can’t even blame alcohol for that one, so there’s one excuse gone.

She’s almost happy to be at work these days, to have the cameras there, because at least then she knows they won’t do anything. She’s been trying to stay away, to not let herself think about how he blushed and shrugged it off when Kevin noticed the hickey she gave him, to not give herself the chance to end up somewhere else alone with him again. But not talking to him makes her feel cold and antsy inside and she’s falling back into old patterns. At least when they’re at the office park, when they’re on camera she feels something like safe enough to talk to him, to come up here tonight.

In the parking lot, Dwight is unloading a worrying amount of strangely shaped packages from the trunk of his car, and piling them into Kevin’s arms. Creed is weaving in and out between the nearby cars. He circles the truck where Roy parked it this morning; the keys are digging into Pam’s thigh, where she put them in her coat pocket after Roy gave them to her.

Three days ago was their ninth anniversary. After work, Roy showered and she put on a different top and they went to their favorite restaurant in Scranton, the one they’ve been to for three of his birthdays and two of hers.

“Hey,” she said on the ride home, as Roy pulled onto the street before theirs. “You know how last year we were talking about maybe having the wedding in June? I was thinking if we set the date now, we would have enough time for, like, planning and everything.” Her nails were pressing into the palms of her hands.

“Oh,” said Roy. He glanced over at her and she could see half his face as they went under a streetlight. “Oh, hey, babe, I don’t know, that’s only, like, six months away, right?”

“Seven,” she said under her breath. Roy flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’s just that neither of us got our raise this year,” he said, “and it’s a lot of money. And if we were thinking about trying to put a down payment on a house while interest rates are still, you know, good…”

They pulled into the driveway and Roy shut off the engine.

“Yeah,” Pam said, looking down at her lap.

“Hey,” said Roy, reaching out to pull her in close to him. “Maybe next year, right?” He kissed her temple, and Pam nodded, her throat tight. She shrugged it off and smiled up at Roy, until he kissed her.

It wouldn’t be so bad, she thinks, if she didn’t care. It’s not like she doesn’t know what she wants – she’s wanted the same thing since she was nineteen years old. She just can’t figure out how to get it.

The roof hatch banging open makes her jump. It’s Jim, a paper box in one hand, and then the camera behind him.

“Hey!” he says, “I hope you’re hungry.”

**

Dwight’s fireworks have been getting progressively bigger and Dwight and Kevin louder and louder, by the time Kevin catches on fire. Pam’s finished eating and Jim is leaning back in his lawn chair, legs stretched out in front of him, when Dwight’s yelling abruptly takes on a different tone. They sit up straight at the same time, and Jim lets out a disbelieving little laugh. The leg of Kevin’s pants is definitely in flame.

“Oh my God,” Jim says, and Pam covers her mouth with her hands.

“Is he okay?” Kevin’s still running, away from the fireworks, and Dwight is chasing him.

“Stop, drop and roll!” his voice floats up to them. “Kevin! Drop and roll!” From the corner of Pam’s eye she sees movement. It’s the camera guy, coming up to the edge of the roof and crouching a little, camera aimed down at Dwight and Kevin. When Pam looks back, Dwight has tackled Kevin, and is … wriggling? on top of him.

“Smother! Smother!” they can hear him yelling faintly and Jim is laughing. There’s someone else moving around down there, and then both Kevin and Dwight get doused in the white foam of a fire extinguisher.

“Dammit, Creed,” Dwight shouts, and the camera guy turns around abruptly and heads for the roof hatch. Pam stands up and takes a few steps forward to see better. When she looks over, Jim’s beside her, face delighted.

“Wow,” he says. “So much for fire safety.”

“Do you think he’ll have to buy new pants?” she says.

“Oh, yeah,” Jim says, “Definitely. Unless he decides to go Derelicte.”

The door downstairs bangs shut, and Pam can see the camera guy jogging across the parking lot, over to where Kevin now seems to be taking _off_ his pants. Pam takes another step forward, ducking her head and squinting, when she feels Jim’s hand on her elbow.

“Careful,” he says, and she looks down at the edge of the roof a foot away, and takes a step backward. When she turns around he’s right there, his chest and his hair, looking down at her, and she feels her heart start to pound. The wind’s picking up, blowing her hair across her eyes, so she brushes it away and steps around him. The roof feels suddenly very empty without the camera guy, with just the two of them.

“I wonder if we can count this as overtime,” she says, trying to keep her voice light, and after a second Jim answers, moving into her peripheral vision.

“You mean we aren’t?” he says. “Man, why am I still here?” Pam laughs, bending to stack their paper plates.

“You know why,” she says, then pauses, realizing what she just said. Jim looks awkward and she feels her face flush. “Um, the view, obviously,” she finishes lamely, looking away.

“Well, clearly,” he says. The candle is guttering, and she picks it up to blow it out, while Jim balls up the napkins. The wind gusts again, strong enough to blow the plates and cans off the upended box and under the folding chairs.

“Crap,” she says, dropping to her knees to grab them as Jim says, “Got it.” She has to lean forward to reach, and he’s bending down to do the same thing, and her face is right by his shoulder, his jaw.

She reaches for his lapels without thinking, and he freezes. She can see his pulse jumping, the five o’clock shadow coming in, and then he turns toward her and licks his lower lip nervously. She’s holding her breath, and when she exhales she can see her breath in the air between them, hanging, and then she kisses him.

He has a hand in her hair and one on the small of her back before she can think, kneeling in front of her so they’re pressed together through their coats, knee to hip to mouth. She hadn’t realized till just now how scared she was he wouldn’t—that he didn’t want to. That he wouldn’t want to be with a girl like her, that she’d been too honest when she’d told him she’s not leaving Roy, but here he is. He’s right here.

“Jim—“ she says when they stop to breathe, and she feels him go still. She shakes her head, runs a hand up over his chest. “No, just—the camera…”

He pulls back an inch and looks right, over at the edge, then around at the empty space of the roof.

“I don’t—” she starts again, but he’s reaching around her to drag one of the chairs out of the way, and pushing her back at the same time, so she has to scramble backwards over the cold tar. He crawls forward with her, until they’re behind the chairs, then drags the first one back into place, so both chairs are between them and the edge of the roof, and they’re far enough from the edge she can’t see the parking lot at all.

“Oh,” she says, and smiles before he kisses her again. His hands are roaming over her hips, her shoulder, one slipping up under the side of her shirt. It’s hot against her skin, his fingers splaying along her ribs, and she leans into him, pushing backward, running her mouth over his neck. Jim brings a hand up to cradle her jaw, and she turns her head, biting at his index finger. His eyes widen and she feels a laugh bubbling up inside her, but tamps it down and pushes him backwards, until he’s on his back.

When she straddles his hips her knees scrape against the rough surface of the roof, but there’s no time to think about that when they’re outside, and the camera could come back up any minute. One of his hands is on her breast, over her shirt, and when she moves, she can feel him hard against her, through his clothes. It’s strange, and strangely hot, that she can do this to him, that this is _Jim_. Pam leans forward to kiss him again, as she fumbles with his belt, and then his zipper. He arches his hips to help her pull down his pants and boxers just enough, and she feels him spring free into her hand, against her thigh. Her skirt is shoved up around her hips and she feels dizzy, desperate.

Last year when Roy’s sister got married, Pam spent the whole night of the bachelorette party getting unsolicited life advice from the matron-of-honor, seven years older and increasingly drunk.

“The one think I wish someone had told me when I was your age…” she began for the sixth time, patting Pam’s knee at the bar, “is to sleep around more. It never works with your first.” Pam smiled politely and took a sip of her beer so she wouldn’t have to answer. “Neither of you know what you want,” she went on. “You always wonder what you’re missing out on.”

Jim groans when she rubs her thumb over the tip of his cock, but still presses a knuckle between her legs. Pam shifts so he can slip a finger under her panties. He only hesitates for a second before sliding it inside her, and god, nothing has ever felt so good. She can’t tell if she’s shivering from the cold or from this.

Pam presses her face against Jim’s neck as he works another finger in. Her own hot breath is echoing back to her off his skin, and she can’t see him when she says, “oh, god, Jim, I want…”

He goes still again, but only for a moment. Then his hand is on her shoulder, pushing her upward, while the other tugs at her underwear.

“Off,” he says, “Off, off,” and by the time they are he has his wallet out. There’s a condom tucked inside, and she doesn't ask whether he always has one in there, or if it’s because of everything that’s happened with them. Either way, she doesn't want to know.

“Shit,” he says, “your knees,” and she blinks, looking down. She’s sitting back, thighs together, ankles on either side of his hips, and her knees are rubbed red. Jim slips his arms out of his coat and spreads out the edges so when he tugs her forward again by the front of her coat she’s kneeling on it instead.

Pam is not going to cry. Instead she takes the condom from him and goes about making it useful.

When he’s all the way inside her she opens her eyes – Jim’s looking right at her, and it makes her chest tight with how real this is. She can’t stop to think about it. She moves, instead, and breathes, and moves, and he slides his hands up under her skirt to hold onto her hips.

“ _Fuck_ , Pam,” he says, closing his eyes, and she presses her lips together to hide her smile.

“That’s what I’m doing,” she says, and his eyes fly open in shock, just before his face lights up. She can feel his laugh all through her.

“Oh my God, are you talking trash?” he says, and she laughs.

“Maybe,” she starts, but he flips them over in one quick motion and pushes _up_ and she gasps before she can finish it. The rooftop is cold on her back, even through her clothes, and she can feel goosebumps everywhere Jim’s not touching her.

His shirttails are rucked up and she has her hands on the smooth, hot skin of his waist, his back, and he’s moving, moving—

“Don’t stop,” she manages. Over his shoulder, the sky is black and starless, a pink glow at the horizon. When Pam tilts her head all the way back she almost can’t see the city lights, and she’s looking up, up, up into the darkness when she comes, his thumb on her clit.

“God,” she says, “Jim,” and he’s still moving, so she wraps her ankles around his back, her fingers in his tie, and he presses his face into her shoulder and comes.

In the sudden stillness, everything seems loud – their ragged breathing, the distant white hum of traffic, a car door slamming somewhere. Jim’s thumb is drawing tiny circles on her hip. She reaches down to tangle her fingers in his and squeezes quickly before shifting so he rolls off of her.

Pam turns her back to give him a chance to clean up and hopes he isn’t looking while she finds and pulls on her underwear. She smoothes down her skirt and her hair as best she can and when she turns around, he looks completely normal, everyday Jim in his coat and baggy work slacks, like nothing’s even happened.

“Kevin! This is a custom paint job,” Dwight’s voice floats up suddenly, faint in the darkness, and it’s a jolt to remember where they actually are.

Jim follows her down the ladder and along the hallway to the office. Inside it’s almost entirely dark, and he drops the box of trash by his desk, before jerking his thumb toward the bathrooms.

“I’m just gonna—“

“Okay,” she says, and pretends not to watch his back as he pushes through the kitchen door. After a moment she follows, and goes into the ladies room. The lights come to life slowly, flickering and buzzing, and the stall lock echoes when she slides it over.

When she’s done washing her hands, Pam pauses and looks at her face in the mirror. This late in the day, all her makeup’s smeared off, and her cheeks are still flushed from the cold outside air, and she looks the same as always. She presses her damp hands to her face for a moment on her way out the door.

Jim’s leaning on the edge of his desk, fiddling with his keys, and his head jerks up when she comes out through the kitchen door.

“Oh!” he says, relief flicking across his face. “I thought maybe you left.”

Pam shakes her head, feeling strangely shy.

“Nope,” she says, fingering the handle of her purse. Jim pushes up off the desk when she gets close, and falls in step beside her.

The parking lot is chilly and quiet, and she’s not ready yet to get in the cold truck cab and drive home through the dark streets and think about anything. She feels fuzzy-headed and happy and far away from everything. They’re talking like everything’s normal, like they’re just them, and she wants to make sure everything’s really okay. Jim’s fingers brush hers when he hands her the earbud, and she can almost pretend this is perfectly innocent, that she can’t feel his stubble burn on her face, the scrapes on her knees.

The music from his iPod feels like it’s inside her head, intimate and close, and he’s standing so near that she can feel the heat coming off his body, like they’re the only two people in the world.

They listen to three songs, and then she gets in the truck and drives home, Jim’s headlights in her rearview mirror until the stop sign where she takes a right and he turns left.

**

Pam wakes up and it takes her a moment to remember what she’s supposed to feel weird about. But then she showers like always, and Roy kisses her goodbye in the parking lot like always, and it seems like everything should be somehow different, but it’s all just the same. She’s not sure how she feels about that.

When she gets inside Jim gives her this quick, smoldering look that makes her stomach drop, and she gets three messages into the main voicemail before she realizes she hasn’t heard a single thing.

When Jim wanders over to her desk all casually to talk about Jan, Pam thinks maybe she’ll have a little room to breathe, to figure things out. She’s in way over her head, but she’s just so tired of feeling trapped in her own life.

And then somehow they’re not talking about Jan and Michael anymore, he’s turning it around to them and it’s just so _weird_ that he’s trying to pretend like last night was a date, right in front of the cameras and everyone, that she doesn’t even know what to say. What does he want her to say? When she’s _engaged_.

Pam’s fingers are shaking so much she has to redial the fax number twice. The more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets. “At least I didn't leave you at a high school hockey game”? All her embarrassment over telling the stupid story in the first place is back and what the hell right does Jim think he has to say anything about it? Like he was perfect when he was sixteen.

And Jim talking about ridiculous things, fireworks and dancing only makes it worse. It makes her stomach hurt to think about a first date that’s accidental, half-dressed sex. That that’s the kind of first date Jim would want.

Work is crazy enough – Michael and Jan and rumors flying – that she can get through most of the day without looking at Jim. Kevin comes over to show her how all the hair on his shin has been burned off, while leaving his skin mysteriously intact. There’s… really nothing appropriate to say to that. She wants to ask Jim if he thinks Kevin will start calling himself Fire Guy, but.

Late in the afternoon, an IM from Jim pops up on her screen:

_Hey._

From the corner of her eye she can see him glance up at her, but she stares resolutely at her screen as she answers.

_Hi._

_Um, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about earlier._ he says. Pam chews her lip and doesn’t answer and after a second she can hear him typing again. _Can I make it up to you? Dinner?_

Pam looks down at her hands and types fast.

_I don’t think that’s a good idea._

There’s a pause while she waits for him to answer. One of her cuticles is peeling.

_Oh yeah? You’re boycotting dinner now?_

The message pops up and Pam answers fast, before she can think about it too much: _Well, I wouldn’t want dinner to get the wrong idea about things._

 _Well_ , he shoots back, _Breakfast IS the most important meal of the day._ and she almost doesn’t know what they’re talking about anymore until he follows it up after a beat with, _I’m sure dinner’s happy to take whatever it can get._ Pam feels her stomach knot; like she’s this girl guys see what they can get out of? Like everything’s on her? He’s in this, too.

 _Oh, really?_ she says. She feels like he’s baiting her, and it’s hardly like she’s got any dignity left as it is. _’cause, you know, I can take it or leave it._ This is easily the stupidest IM conversation she’s ever had, which is saying something.

It takes a minute for him to answer.

 _Well, obviously. I’m sure dinner feels the same way._ And after a moment: _I mean, it’s just a meal. Not very exciting._

Pam feels her face flush, and she shifts in her chair so Jim can’t see her face from his desk. Fine. She’s not going to give him the satisfaction of… whatever.

 _Right,_ she says in the IM window.

 _Okay, then,_ he says, and then neither of them says anything else for so long that Pam closes the window. She’s not really sure what just happened. It’s getting to be a familiar feeling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Find the other parts of the series here.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/707550)


End file.
